Threads of Fate
by stars are brighter
Summary: What will it take to cut the strings of fate? (A sort of/kind of self insert story).


_The beginning of everything comes into being slowly; fading from black to white, to radiant color before my eyes. The first sensation is touch, the second is smell, the third is sound, and on and on until I am complete. The confusion doesn't go away for a long time. Nothing makes sense, here. The shapes talk too loudly, the room spins, my body is tiny and uncoordinated and much too soft. I realize, after an embarrassing amount of time, that I am a child. A new life. A tiny, helpless person. It takes even longer for me to realize that my brain doesn't match my body; that I am... too much. An entire lifetime is inside of me, an *understanding* that should not exist within me._

 _"Mariyahm Stark."_

 _A new name. A new life. I am... new. Somehow, it feels wrong. Awareness creeps up on me like a shadow on the edges of my mind. At first, it's as if there's something I've forgotten, something right on the tip of my tongue that I can't grasp. Then, there are snatches of memories that cannot be my own, that feel so far removed it's as if they're visions or hallucinations or vivid dreams. There is a woman holding me, crooning into my hair, laughing at the words of a man who I do not know and cannot understand. I squirm in the woman's arms, her smile twists into a frown, and somehow the overwhelming urge to cry overtakes me before I can smother it._

 _The woman's name is Catelyn Stark and she is my mother. She is gentle and kind to me; holds me close when I cry, feeds me milk from her breasts (and I certainly rebelled against that at first, but hunger is very convincing, unfortunately). Mostly, Catelyn Stark is a good woman. At least, as the years pass, it seems to be true that she doesn't usually wish ill will on people._

 _Catelyn is not gentle or kind to Jon Snow._

 _He's older than me by only five or six years, but his face is lined with the hardships of a boy twice is age. I didn't understand why he always looked so sad and unhappy. It isn't until one day, a few weeks after my third name day, when I open my arms to him for a hug, that I realize._

 _"Don't put your hands on her," Catelyn's voice is sharper than I've ever heard, brittle and broken like glass. She sweeps me up and holds me tight, turning away from the stricken expression on Jon's face. Still, it's not quick enough. I see it there, clear as day, his heart breaking. It's at that moment that the world blackens around the edges and a sharp pain strikes my mind and suddenly I *know* Catelyn Stark and the reason behind her hatred. A scene from her past, a scene like a movie (and how do I know what a movie is? How do I know these things, these foreign things that don't exist?)._

 _I come back to myself just as she sets me down, her face still twisted in a disgusted sneer._

 _From then on, when I think of her, she is 'Catelyn' instead of 'mother'._

 _—_

 _Sansa is born nine months later. Arya, two years after. The rest of my memories come back to me on the day that Bran comes into the world. And isn't that the funniest thing, I think to myself, that I should know exactly what will happen to this stupid little child in this stupid, horrible world of death and destruction. He will be different too, one day. But when or if that happens, it will be a long time from now._

 _Suddenly I hate him a little, for being the catalyst of it all. For triggering the torrential pour of memories of a life long before this one, of a story that is, as I stand here, happening all around me._

 _I hate him. I love him; I love them all. And I have to save them, no matter what it takes._

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"You're slow!"

As Arya's stick hits me in the shins for the third time that day, I internally berate myself for ever agreeing to 'play' with her. 'Playing' in Arya's mind equals 'sword fighting practice'. Since she is unfortunately devoid of a sword (considering she is only ten years old), it all boils down to 'lets beat up Mariyahm until she begs for mercy for her poor, bruised limbs'. Another smack to the knee is enough to finally end my patience for the afternoon and I put out my hand to grab the stick before it can connect with another body part.

"You're not as fast as you think you are," I reply, simply. Her face burns a pretty scarlet, underneath all the dust and dirt from her playtime activities.

"I'm fast! I'm faster than you, dummy!"

I roll my eyes. Catelyn Stark's favorite pastime is to tell me how unladylike such an action is. My favorite pastime is to ignore her as much as possible.

"I gotta go. I promised Bran I'd help him with his chores."

"That's a lie!"

"It's a good one," I say, shrugging. I turn away from Arya's irritation, leaving her to begin jabbing and swatting her little stick around like a hooligan once more.

The day is brighter than usual, warm in a way that only Northerners would ever call warm. The wraps and clothing I wear seem heavier than usual on my small frame and my feet, covered and tied in boots and furs to keep out the cold, feel like lead as they tromp through the light dusting of snow from the night before. I can hear Rickon laughing at something Bran says, somewhere close, and I can see Robb out of my peripheral vision, speaking with father in low tones by the horse ties.

Winterfell is huge, some say. But to me, it seems much too small.

I look up and see Sansa and her mother - my mother, too, I suppose - standing side by side on one of the balconies overlooking the stable square. When Sansa spots me, she frowns. Even though Catelyn's face is carefully neutral, I know that she's thinking the same. *Who is that girl?* her mind surely whispers to her, *she wears the face and name and body of my daughter, but who is she, really?*

If she were to ask me outright, I would have no answer for her.

Like Jon, I am both loved and unloved in varying degrees by my parents and siblings. I am on the edge, looking inside - never fully accepted, but never completely cast out.

"If that furrow in your brow gets any deeper, your face will freeze that way, m'lady." Ah, Theon. A growl lodges in my throat and I push it back, smooth out my features to one of genial neutrality. Scenes from another lifetime play at the forefront of my mind. Images of death, sorrow, betrayal. There is also redemption, eventually, but too much of the terrible remains for me to dwell on the good for long. Theon Greyjoy.

The hate swells in my throat and chokes me.

"Don't call me 'lady'," I mutter, finally. At one time, Theon's face would have twisted in confusion at my bland, rude reply. But he's known me too long, ever since I was a child, and therefore he knows that I have no love for him. Or, at least, I *think* he knows. More often than not, he seems to ignore that fact in favor of flirting with me and making a nuisance of himself.

"What crawled up your pretty arse and bit you this morning, *m'lady*," he continues, a smirk on his lips.

I turn, give him a deadpan smile, and say, pleasantly, "Fuck off."

"You shouldn't be so crude. No one's going to want to marry you if -"

"You're one to talk about 'crudeness', shithead," before he can reply, anger twisting his usually handsome features into something ugly, I continue, "And I don't see very many people lining up to marry you either, so maybe you should focus on bettering yourself first before giving advice to anyone else."

He opens his mouth as if to retort, but then seems to think better of it. For a moment, he's silent, and finally, "Why do you hate me so much?"

"I don't hate you."

"Yes, you do."

 _Yes, I do._

I shrug. "You're very easy to hate."

"Same to you," he snaps, pivoting on his heel and stalking off, most likely to harass another girl more willing to put up with him.

* * *

"You're late, little sister."

Out of all my brothers, Robb Stark is right below Jon when it comes to my favorites. Sometimes, it's hard to tell where Jon ends and Robb begins; but they have marked differences all the same. Robb is jovial and teasing, only puts on a serious face when he needs to. Jon is... the other way around, really. But not in a bad way. He's quiet, but he knows when to use sarcasm and humor at just the right time - unlike Robb, who will play and tease and laugh whenever he has the chance. They're my brothers, the both of them, and I feel a sharp pain in my rib cage whenever I think of the future - of what will become of them, if I don't manage to stop it.

It's overwhelming and horribly frightening, to think I hold their lives in my hands. How will I do it? That's the question I always ask myself. They'll part ways, within the coming year. Jon will go to take the Black and Robb... well, Robb will become what the death of our father makes him. And he will still be Robb, but he will be different too - not in a good way. I don't think I can stand to see it. The first order of business would, of course, be to save Ned Stark from his untimely death by the hands of Joffrey. But... how? How will I keep Jon from joining the Black, keep Bran from falling off the tower? How will I stop Sansa from being a stupid little boy crazed twit with big dreams? It's all too much.

"Hey, Mari, you alright?" Robb crooks a finger under my chin and raises my face to look into his own. I avoid his eyes. Surely, if he looks into them, he'll see my turmoil. Thankfully, he doesn't comment on that. I rarely ever look anyone in the eye, no matter the situation. Too dangerous. Too risky, the thought of them seeing and asking - the thought of having to answer, when there's no answer that wouldn't make me seem insane.

"Fine, Robb. I'm fine," I pull away, giving him a tremulous smile that would hardly be convincing to a dog - let alone Robb Stark, who knows me too well to believe it. I quickly dredge up the reason for my presence, thankful for an easy change of subject. "So, did you get them?"

"I got them," he replies, a knowing look in his eyes. Robb turns away and rifles through some furs next to his bed, returning with an armful of books (two, which considering the size of books in this place, are basically like holding bricks). I smile for real this time. Robb has always liked making me happy. Sending for books from Kings Landing, books that probably took him months or even the better part of a year to finally receive, all for me. It's nice to know that, at the very least, one person in my family cares to see a true expression of happiness on my face for once.

"Thank you!" I gasp, throwing myself forward and hugging him as tightly as I can, the books squished between us. I don't usually initiate contact, especially not affectionate contact. The look of baffled shock on Robb's face is enough to make a laugh twitch at my lips that I barely keep from spilling over. "You're the best big brother anyone could ask for."

"Alright, enough flattery from you," he mutters, his cheeks flaming red. I really do laugh a little when I see his embarrassment. He sets the books down on the nearest table and pulls up two chairs. We both handle the books as if they're gold. To us, here in Winterfell where books are old and well read and new written information is sparse at best, they might as well be.

As I flip open the cover and begin perusing the nearest volume, Robb settles his chin on his knuckles and his elbows on the table. "You like to read, but you don't like to sew. You also don't like to spar, or ride horses, or do... anything much, as far as I can tell. But you like to read. So what are you hoping to do with all this knowledge, little sister?"

"I don't know," I answer, semi-honestly. "Reading passes the time."

"Sparring passes the time. Riding passes the time. Sewing, as far as I can tell, 'passes the time'."

I finally look up at him, arching an eyebrow. "Sparring hurts my limbs, riding hurts my arse, and sewing hurts my head. Reading does none of those things."

"On the contrary," Robb laughs, "Reading has always made my head hurt."

"Maybe you should try sewing and then tell me which makes your head hurt more."

I flip another page, expecting to hear him laugh again at such a suggestion. When the silence lasts a little too long, I look up at him again. To my surprise, there's a frown on his face and he's watching me, closer than he normally does, as if he's working through a particularly confusing puzzle.

"You need to start thinking about your future, Mari. Your sixteenth name-day was a month ago and..." he trails off, as if lost for words to end it with. But I know what he means to say.

"Father won't force me into a marriage, if that's what you're worried about," I reply, slowly. "Ne - er, father is kind. He won't make me do anything I don't want." Shit. Every time I speak of Ned Stark, I almost always trip up. But it has been a while. I can tell Robb has noticed by the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"It doesn't matter how kind he is. Mother won't stand for one of her daughters being unmarried forever, you know that."

Unfortunately I can't come right out and say that 'mother' can suck my nonexistence dick. Still, my tone is less than respectful as I answer, "Is that so?"

"You shouldn't be afraid of marriage. Everyone in the Stark family will be married eventually. It's... it's just the natural way of things."

With a slam, I shut the book and fold my hands together on the table. "I'm not afraid of marriage. I'm not afraid of sex or giving birth or any of that shit." I continue before he can reprimand me for the curse. "I'm not afraid to say no to mother or father or anyone else on this bloody planet who tries to get me to do something I don't want. And I'm not interested in the 'natural way of things'."

I expect him to be angry at my callous reply. Robb has always been a loyal son to our parents. If Ned Stark tells him to do something, he usually does it without argument. He's much the same when it comes to mother, though I think he understands my attitude towards her a little better than anyone else. However, his features don't twist in anger. Instead, he looks unsure and a little frustrated. On top of all that, I can see worry in the lines and creases of his face. I try and squash the guilt, but I'm largely unsuccessful.

"Then what are interested in, Mari?" The question catches me off guard and by the sad tick of his lips, I can tell that he's noticed. "If you're not interested in marriage, or children, or the natural way of things - whatever that may be - then what, pray tell, are you interested in?"

I want to tell him how afraid I am. How nothing in this world interests me more than saving the people I've grown to love. I want to tell Robb that apathy is a fitting mask for someone who would crumble without it. I want to tell him how much I love him, how much I love Bran and Rickon, Arya and Sansa, and Jon. I want to tell him that I would cut my own throat right here, right now, if it meant saving them all. I want to tell him that I've died once before and it wasn't so bad, that I can't make plans or goals when I already know exactly where everyone I know is headed in life - and that the only person who's future I don't know is my own. I want to tell him how much that scares me too.

Instead, I heave a great sigh and page through the tome in front of me again.

"Right now, I'm interested in reading the rest of this book."


End file.
